


i will never leave you

by eddiemylovee



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Boris POV, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Soft Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-11-01 00:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiemylovee/pseuds/eddiemylovee
Summary: Safe. Normal. Peace.These words I never could explain before. Never had experienced these feelings. Now, sometimes I feel this.a forgotten night from Boris’ point of view





	i will never leave you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avocadoapocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadoapocalypse/gifts).

Today marks one year since I came from shitty town in Alaska to hot desert in Vegas. Will never get used to the sun. Am used to the cold, you know, but is terrible also. Two extremes, but same, in a way. Empty, barren, like Alien planet— one hot as the fucking sun, other colder than pluto. 

But, am getting used to it. Not so bad when I am inside our house (well, Potter’s house), no shirt, no socks, canned cold air coming out through vents, with cold beer always in my hand. 

Safe. Normal. Peace. 

These words I never could explain before. Never had experienced these feelings. Now, sometimes I feel this. 

It is strange, no? Emotions that many children my age, even younger, can easily explain, but I have never felt. I thought the normal was pain. I thought the safe was traveling, moving, migrating. I thought peace was drugs. But no, there is something more. 

Not at my house, no. Never. Only at Potter’s. Even then only sometimes. Only when Larry and Xandra are gone, and we have house to ourselves. Fuck, we basically have whole neighborhood to ourselves. And in just the right moments, feels like the whole world is all to ourselves; no one else exists but me and the boy beside me. 

I wake up to a sharp gasp to my left, as Potter shot up off his usual resting place in our bed. Not an unusual occurrence; Potter has nightmares often—sometimes several in one night. Mine stopped years ago. Got used to the pain far too young. Now I do not have any dreams at all. Like this part of my brain has been blocked. 

(And sometimes, I regret this—as if I had the choice to begin with—but when I read some books about wonderful dreams of love and sunshine and warmth, of happy people and good feelings, cannot help but wonder, why I never get these dreams? All is light and warmth with Potter, but still no dreams come. It is all real.)

But Potter’s traumas are still fresh, and I am used to his nightly relapses to a crumbling museum. 

I remember what I wished for when I woke up in panic as a boy, so this I do for Potter. 

I wrap my arm around his bare torso and pull him close to me, a bit too sleepy to remember the right words in English. (in Ukrainian or Russian or Polish—) shh, I’ve got you, it’s all right. I’m here. He is gasping for air, gripping my arms as though his life depends on it. Does not bother me. Never has. Makes me feel warm in my chest, like I can somehow protect this beautiful boy from the ugliness that weighs down his mind. 

His breathing slows and I open my eyes to see if he has fallen back asleep. I only see him, face inches away from mine, eyes wide and glittering with tears. One rolls down the side of his face and onto the pillow. I feel a pang in my chest. Potter does not cry— well, he does, actually, more often than one would think— but never in front of me. As if he thinks I would care for him any less if I saw his tears. 

But I see them now—he is staring deep into my eyes and I see confusion, horror, and worry furrowed into his expression. 

“Nightmare?” I whisper. 

He only nods. 

“Is okay, I am here. Was not real.” I close my eyes again and trace my hand up his spine and twirl my fingers in the chlorine streaked hairs at the nape of his neck. Usually he relaxes when I do this. Tonight he does not. 

I open my eyes again when I feel a soft hand on my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, fingers delicately tracing as though memorizing the long scar on my jawline. 

“Potter? What is wrong?”

Silence. His lip quivers, as though he is about to speak but cannot, holding back sobs. 

“It was about your mother, yes? Am so sorry about what happened. You know I-“

“It was about you.” Voice gravelly and thick. He draws his hand away from my face and rolls over onto his back, both hands clutching the sheet over his freckled bare chest. 

“What?”

“You left me.”

The crack in his voice made my chest ache in a new way— like deep inside I was breaking, but could not understand why, or how. 

“Potter...”

“You left me and I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t make you stay. Tried to make up every excuse and you wouldn’t stay. Like all our time here together was meaningless to you.”

“Potter, don’t say th-“

“Is it?”

An uncomfortable pause. “What?”

“Is all our time here, together, does it even mean anything to you? What if you really do have to leave?”

“Potter, I-“

“What would I do? Do you know what would happen to me? If you left I-“

“Potter!” I cut him off, unable to bear anymore of his sleep-drunk panic. I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at his tear-streaked face, eyes wild, looking everywhere but me. 

“I will not leave you. Will run away from my father! Disappear! Never want to see that fucking man again anyways. I will stay with you, here. Or we can run away together.”  
He does not react, still clutching to the sheets as though for dear life. 

An impulsive decision — should I? He will probably push me away and start yelling, throwing things, punching me, as he usually does when he gets worked up like this. But he meets my gaze now, looking more broken than ever and I decide my heart aches too much not to be touching him. 

I reach my hand down and stroke his hair gently before I plant a kiss on his forehead. He shivers at the touch, and I feel him relax a little under me.

I kiss one cheek, then the other, then his nose, I do not know why I am doing this, like I am being guided by some outside force but, me? Kissing a boy? Strange, but not. But I simply cannot help myself, because this is not just a boy, this is Theo.

And then I’m kissing him, on the lips, and immediately I am alive- his chapped lips taste unmistakably right, like chlorine and salty tears and weed, and it feels like my whole life was leading me to him, to this moment. 

Safe. 

And his hands are in my hair and I don’t even know why I worried about him pushing me away at all. It’s so easy, natural. 

Normal. 

I pull away first because I cannot fucking breathe, but feel a sort of relief when I notice he is breathing as rapidly as I am, but his eyes are still closed and I think if I keep looking at him my heart will explode and spew its contents all over the bed. 

So, I close my eyes and lay my head on his chest, listen to the rhythm of his beautiful heart, hand pressed on his ribs, and I feel him sigh into my hair as he pulls me closer. 

Peace. 

“I will never leave you, Theo.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic, some ramblings i wrote at like 1am, i was gonna add more but got too lazy, so maybe we’ll see a part 2? who knows :,) enjoy


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